


Queen and King

by breadcat



Category: Adventure Time
Genre: Breaking the Fourth Wall, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-16
Updated: 2013-09-16
Packaged: 2017-12-26 18:28:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/968878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/breadcat/pseuds/breadcat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Breaking the fourth wall with some vampires boinking. Violence warning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Queen and King

**Author's Note:**

> Reposting from tumblr. Pretty old. Written for a friend that I'm not aware if they have a AO3 account or not.

It’s game on when she catches him by the collar and slams his back into the wall hard enough to crack the plaster.

His pupils are slits, fangs bared in a challenge she just grins at. She’s ready for his retaliation, knows him all too well. She slams his back into the wall again before he can react further, and he hears the plaster crumble and litter the floor. The pain in minimal, but it’s likely he’ll bruise from that.

He rips her hand from his collar, hissing a warning that was all for show. She responds in kind, trying to make another grab at him but he catches her. He flips her easily, but she never collides with the floor. She caught herself just a fraction before and hovers. Her new vantage point allows her to swipe his legs out from under him, but like her, he catches himself before colliding with the floor.

The chase was on.

All over the house, putting more cracks in walls that had just been repaired from the last time she wanted to play games. He pins her, she pins him back. They tumble across the floor, float up to the ceiling and end up puncturing a hole up into her room. She voices her protest by biting him on the shoulder, clean through his shirt and skin. The growl that left him was the furthest thing from ‘human’ as any sound could get. He shredded the back of her tank top in return, sharp claw like nails biting into her skin drawing angry lines.

He’d enjoy watching them heal later. Turning to mean purple lines of bruises before fading away into nothing.

She arches against him, fangs sliding free from his shoulder with an almost audible pop from her sudden departure. His shirt soaks with his blood but he doesn’t care. He paints her back with the blood that wells in the scratches, drinking in the smell as it surrounds them.

Her eyes are dark when they finally meet his, and she leans down to seal their mouths together. All he can taste is her with his blood on her tongue. He flips their position, her back colliding with the ceiling with a wet noise and he distinctly hears a few small pattering drops hit the floor below.

He doesn’t care how wrong it is, how little sense it all makes. She doesn’t either. All that matters is the tangible need between them, and the subdued understanding of each other’s pain.

He bites her bottom lip, drawing it into his mouth between his fangs; she shudders. 

Her hands work to pull at his clothing, letting it grow into a pile on the floor under them. He returns the favor, his fingers eager and immediately between her legs. She writhes against the ceiling, smearing her blood into a pattern that he’d later remark looked an awful lot like a butterfly. Well what used to be a butterfly anyway.

He’s never gentle with her, there’s no reason to be. She’s as wild of a creature as he is, and she is never half way to aroused when she comes at him like an enraged bull. It’s a sign that she’s already at her peak tolerance and she wants him, but she makes him work for it.

But he has her pinned, marking her neck and shoulder with his fangs while his fingers work relentlessly between her legs. She’s all hissing and growling and threatening to dismember him, but he teases her on.

Her fluids soak the two fingers he has buried into her, and she’s still not to the edge yet. She glares at him, daring him onward and he replies with a come hither motion of his fingers in her channel and a circling rub from his thumb over her core.

Her hands fly to the ceiling, nails biting into the drywall and digging deep grooves into it. It’s not enough, he keeps stopping after a few seconds, bringing her close to the edge but refusing to topple her over.

She’s infuriated, bucking against his hand, demanding. He smirks at her, mocking her need even though his own is very pressing and she keeps bumping her knee along it.

She knows he wants her to beg, but that will never happen. They always play that game but no one wins with it. They both cave and he gives her what she wants regardless. It’s just a waiting game.

And the waiting pays off when he caves— as she knew he would —and barely pulls his fingers out before he’s sliding home into her. She digs more grooves into the ceiling and he bites down hard on the skin above her right breast. Her blood floods his senses, his taste, his smell. He bucks into her hard, and that brings her hands to him. 

She pays him back for the gouges on her back, making a mockery of his work with her ruthless pawing against his skin. By the time he’s built up a pace that has her hiccuping from the force each time he drives into her, she’s make a work of art out of his back. A brutal one any way. It probably looks like he’s gone a few rounds with a bear or a tiger rather than just fucked someone senseless.

He feels her fingers slip against the skin of his shoulders as she can’t concentrate enough to claw him anymore. Her hands wet and sticky with his blood, painting him with red handprints and jagged lines as she tries hard to keep a grip on his shoulders, his arms, his ribs, anywhere.

It’s useless. He litters her chest with bites, never properly drinking from her— they didn’t do that— but making sure that she was marked at least for a few days before her body recovered. 

He was nearing his peak when he bit down around her areola. She howled as she came, legs clamping around his hips as her inner muscles spasmed around him. The erratic squeezing and fluttering is what ultimately rushes him to his peak, and he’s growling against her skin as he follows her over the edge.

When they come to sometime later, it’s a miracle they managed to make it to her bed instead of just collapsing down to the floor and sleeping on their clothes.

But she’s comfortable wrapped around him, sore in more places than one, but oh so content.

And that’s all he could ask for: his Queen, as happy as she could be.


End file.
